


Plausible Deniability

by voigreen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (between draco and ron), Bromance, Dessert & Sweets, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Party, Pie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voigreen/pseuds/voigreen
Summary: Draco works at the Ministry. His life is pretty shabby, all things considered, but you'll never get him to admit that. The only comfort he finds is in desserts and pettiness... until his life is, once more, upturned by a bunch of exuberant Gryffindors.





	Plausible Deniability

Before Draco started his job in the Ministry, he’d never walked the street leading up to the concealed visitor’s entrance in the middle of Muggle London. There had simply been no reason to, since his father had always used the Floo to the Atrium.

Even now, as a secretary to some lowly official in the International Magical Office of Law, Draco has access to the Floo. He translates and sorts complaints sent in French, and his knowledge of the language is the only thing that lets him keep the job—as opposed to his impeccable N.E.W.Ts. 

One of the things this particular function requires is punctuality, as many of the requests sent to their offices are time sensitive and—as the Ministry still hasn’t quite recovered from the war—the only person who knows French there is Draco. So all the France-related information that goes through the department goes through  _ Draco _ , a mere secretary. To his mind, that’s not really a job one gives to an ex-Death Eater, but it gives him a sort of perverse satisfaction to know that despite how hard they’ve tried, the Ministry still sorely needs him there.

And this morning, Draco is late.

His calves burn from the half-jog, half-walk hybrid he’s subjected himself to in hopes of regaining a modicum of self-respect. He’s late, and his hands are clutching the wondrous lemon pie from the bakery only two streets down from the Ministry. What’s even worse, he’s late because of that pie, and that pie  _ only _ .

But who can blame him? A man hangs onto his small comforts. It was the only thing Draco could look forward to before sleep claimed him the previous night. Even if this makes him come to work late; even if it puts his job on the line. 

_ Not very fair, _ Draco muses. It’s not fair that the standards he’s held against are so high when the Head of the department himself is barely even there. But he has to convince himself that it doesn’t make him mad… that keeping his head down is the answer. At least he  _ has _ a job, his Mother likes to say.

There was really no resisting it this morning—one of his coworkers had gotten a promotion Draco was about a year overdue. Small comforts, he repeats like a mantra.

But Draco is still Draco, and he’s not about to shove a whole pie in his mouth right there on the street like some undignified prat. That conclusion has him convinced he  _ has _ to use the visitor’s entrance; Apparating is out of the question, as well as Flooing—no one wants Floo powder in their pie—so he scurries on. It’s not much of a decision, really.

Distracted by thoughts of his long-anticipated lemon pie, Draco unceremoniously shoves himself into the booth. The pastry smells wonderful, and he bites into it with fervour. It’s crunchy and creamy at the same time; Draco makes an audible  _ mmm _ at how delicious it is. In that moment, he feels at peace, thoughts of the Ministry and unfairness and frustration all shoved to the back of his head. He’s barely managed to eat half his pie, though, when the door handle jolts. The telephone booth shakes as another person walks into it (with much more force than necessary, Draco would like to add) and ends up too close for comfort.

He’s looking directly at Harry Potter’s face—a face he hasn’t seen for the better part of five years, and a face wearing a most uncomfortable expression. It forces Draco to realize he’s made the grave mistake of not locking the door before starting his pie eating expedition. 

Sodding Potter. Sodding Potter and sodding Draco’s fate, which always finds a way to put him in the worst possible situations. Just to spite his hard work at becoming a better person.

_ How can two people even fit inside this damn thing, for Merlin’s sake? _

“Um, smells nice. Is that lemon?” Potter asks, way too politely. It’s a practical politeness, and one that obviously doesn’t feel right rolling off Potter’s tongue. It never has, Draco thinks to himself through his embarrassment.

He can feel his cheeks flaming in response to the feeling, and he has to keep chewing for what feels like an eternity before he feels recovered enough to respond to Potter.

“Yes,” he chokes through a cough. The lemon pie is quite dry on its own.

“Water?” Potter offers, ever so polite, but there’s concern clouding his features this time around. And yes, the savior complex is still there, Draco reaffirms to himself. But he’s grown enough to come to appreciate things like this now.

He nods, so Potter pulls out an empty bottle out of his bag and Conjures water that feels pleasantly cool to Draco’s throat, and— _ is that lemon flavor _ , Draco asks himself—before he hands the bottle back, humming in thanks.

They haven’t spoken since the end of the war, not really. Draco had expected that his own pride would be hurt, that he’d want to chase Potter down for being the ever-giving, self-sacrificing Golden Boy, but he’d realized that he couldn’t find it in himself. Not when, after Draco’s trial, Potter had given Draco’s wand back along with a look filled with so much understanding that the pain it caused, even to this day, was unbearable. And with the realization that there was no use furthering the rift the war had left between them, Draco had taken his wand back with a solemn nod.

But now that they’ve truly looked at each other after such a long time, Draco realizes it isn’t just embarrassment coiling tightly in his gut—it’s apprehension and anticipation, too.

Potter’s stomach grumbles, and his next words are charged, like lightning between clouds on a thundering summer night. “Can I have the rest of your pie?” They are inconspicuous enough, but they both know the meaning behind them.

It’s a mirrored offering to one made so many years ago, back at Hogwarts. Draco reaches his hand out again to offer the measly leftovers of his pie, but it means so much more.

Potter takes it and stuffs it in his mouth. Smiles cheekily through it all, and once he’s done chewing, he spells out ‘magic’ on the buttons in the telephone booth to bring them down to the Ministry levels. Whatever it is that just passed between them, Potter seems to have taken it as reason enough to chuck his false politeness in the trash, replacing it instead with something much... _ warmer _ .

The clear voice of a witch rings out through the booth. “State your names and business.”

Potter clears his throat. “Harry Potter, here to visit Hermione Granger.” There’s a slight pause after his words, and a silver badge pops out of the change machine, which Potter takes and pins on his coat.

“Draco Malfoy, secretary, International Magical Office of Law. I work here.”

There’s no badge for him, but the booth starts sliding downward. They don’t attempt to make any further stilted conversation, as Draco’s too embarrassed—now at having admitted his low position to Potter too. But Potter doesn’t seem to mind, and instead smiles softly once the booth reaches Level 5.

“You’re here, right?” He asks, gesturing to the door. 

Draco simply nods. They part with a wave on Potter’s end, and Draco still feels embarrassed, but decidedly less so. He just hopes that this is the end of it, and Potter won’t speak of his lemon pie-eating tendencies any time soon, despite what has just passed between them.

* * *

Draco should have known better.

The git, Potter, has left a note on Draco’s desk while he was away on lunch break.

_ “Lunch tomorrow? + lemon pie :)” _

Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes or widen them in bewilderment at the realization that Potter has taken whatever it was that passed between them in the morning as some vague confirmation that he can jumpstart the process of bridging the rift between them.

Just his luck, really, Draco thinks as he gets back on with his day. He tries not to look at the post-it on his desk, but his eyes are drawn to it, so he has to peek at it from time to time. All the while lying to himself that if he looks at it for less than 3 seconds, it doesn’t count.

Despite his exasperation, though, he also can’t find it in himself to genuinely  _ mind _ either, because somehow, it has made dealing with the usual workload much, much easier.

* * *

Lunch with Potter is surprisingly easy. Through the strained awkwardness of their disposition, they both manage to crack jokes and smiles at each other, and the food Potter insists on paying for is even better than Draco had expected.

Draco still doesn’t know why he agreed to this, and his friends don’t seem to approve of it either (‘ _ Draco, darling, you know it will only fester your unhealthy obsession back into existence’ _ ), but he soon finds Potter brings a light to his workdays like nothing—and no one—before.

They settle into it after that. Sometimes Weasley, ever the wanker, joins them. They don’t always have something to say, and oftentimes they have to gloss over past events that leave them both with a heavy look in their eyes.

At least they have the comfort of desserts in those cases.

Sometimes Draco thinks he can feel his Dark Mark twinging with the weight of all the ways they’ve wronged each other. He can only rub his hand over it when that happens and convince himself that both of them have gotten over it.

It’s not long before Harry notices Draco doing just that after they’ve finished with their lunch. It’s been going on for over a month now, multiple times a week, and Draco wishes more time had passed before they were forced to have this conversation.

“What?” Draco spits out, venom coating his words. It’s always been easier to attack first, before he can get attacked himself. “I’m just cold,” he continues, as if that’s any explanation. But it  _ is _ mid-September already, and that gives him the smallest of excuses.

Harry just sighs. “You don’t have to worry about it.” There’s something strange in his eyes. “We wouldn’t be here today without our past.” And he shoots Draco an odd little smile.

That’s the end of it. Harry proceeds to shove treacle tart in his mouth, like he didn’t just grant Draco a most powerful absolution, and makes an audible  _ ‘hmm’  _ that has a couple of the restaurant’s patrons looking at the two of them in amusement.

They don’t really talk about it afterward, but there’s a brilliance in Harry’s eyes that Draco hasn’t noticed before.

Somehow, their lunches continue to exist in an odd vacuum where neither feels too comfortable to acknowledge that the outside world exists. Their only reminder is Weasley, whose visits become increasingly sparser with time. Draco finds that he very much likes it, to his considerable surprise.

* * *

“Oi, ferret,” says Weasley as he shuffles into Draco’s office one afternoon, and it’s the first indication that their lunches have actually been happening, rather than just existing in Draco’s imagination.

“ _ Oui _ , Ronald?” Draco says, looking up from behind his glasses and his pile of complaints. He knows the formality irks the now-tolerable ginger mess of a man.

Weasley scoffs and rolls his eyes, and then, to Draco’s surprise, actually grins at him. Add that to the list of things Draco thought he’d never see. “So, jus’ came here to ask if you’d like to join us for the Halloween party next week,” Weasley says, light tone to his voice. He shuffles around the office a bit, waiting for Draco’s answer, and then pulls up a chair and sits in an absolutely horrendous manner—backwards, leaning forward against it.

It takes all of Draco’s pureblood upbringing not to make a face—flinch, gape, or do anything else otherwise undignified—at Weasley’s words. Instead, he lets his instinctual suspicion take over.

“Why are you suddenly asking me?” Draco squints. At that Weasley lets out an incredulous snort of laughter, which has Draco blustering. “What’s so funny? And don’t sit like that.”

“Just you, Draco. I thought Harry was oblivious, but you’re even worse,” Weasley shakes his head. “Anyway, we’re not trying to execute a well-overdue revenge scheme on you, it’s just gone mid-October, and I thought maybe, since you don’t seem like an insufferable git nowadays, you’d like to have some fun for once.” His grin gets wider. “And you’re not my mum. Don’t tell me what to do.” 

At that, Weasley leaves the office, red robes billowing behind him.

Draco can’t help but notice that there’s nothing left of the blumbering child he once saw Weasley as. Except maybe the way he sits on chairs, which Draco supposes one can be forgiven for.

Has he been making a grave mistake assuming none of them, not even Harry, have changed at all since the war, when Draco himself is a testament to how much people can change in five years?

* * *

He doesn’t mention anything of the invitation to Harry. There’s some sliver of hope that Harry will extend another one to Draco, as if Draco’s presence is something Harry wants for himself. But Harry doesn’t, so Draco pushes it down and pretends he didn’t hope at all in the first place.

Somewhere along the line, Draco began to hate himself. Was it the weight of horrible expectations put on him? Was it the whole world, tight like a coiled spring, waiting for him to make a mistake and lash out all their anger and hurt?

Was it hoping, that despite it all, he would turn out alright?

It’s all of that. And lemon pies can’t help with anything, other than making one fat.

( _ Three days and three glasses of wine later, Pansy stops to look Draco dead in the eye. There’s an unspoken ‘I told you so’, and somewhere under that, there’s concern, Draco thinks. But then she tells him to stop being a baby and go to the party, because the Weasel wants to be friends—and Draco can’t say he’s not surprised at this new side of Pansy either. _ )

* * *

In the end, Draco decides to go, despite not knowing what pushes him to do so—maybe some masochistic tendency to torture himself, or a newfound appreciation for exuberant Gryffindors. It’s only after he’s decided that he realizes Weasley never told him where the party is. Even though the prospect of seeking Weasley out and actually asking about it seems daunting, Draco is firm in the decision he made after the war that he won’t let his resolve break in the face of his fear.

So he firecalls Weasley, and they end up chatting for two hours while a Quidditch game runs on the Wireless in the background. In some ways, it’s even easier than talking to Harry.

At one point, Granger pops in and asks Draco to come to the party. “Oh, and do call us by our first names. I’m not wrong to assume we’ve known each other long enough to do that, am I?”

Draco only nods, his face warm; it’s not only from the heat of the fire.

Halloween is in two days—a Saturday, much to everyone’s delight. In Ron’s words, they can ‘ _ get shitfaced without worrying about work _ ’. Draco doesn’t know if he could ever stop worrying about anything, but it seems prudent not to dampen Ron’s spirits. The situation is only made worse by the fact that the party is happening at the Burrow, a place Draco isn’t sure he’s quite welcome at, even though he’s thoroughly assured that he will be.

It’s like he’s dug his own grave by agreeing to this.

“What are you wearing on Saturday?” Harry asks him the next day, and it catches Draco completely by surprise. 

He swallows the bite of cranberry pie he’d been chewing, thankful for the excuse to think about his answer. “I’m still not sure. I didn’t know you were going?” he says, his voice questioning. Draco wants Harry to continue. He wants to get it out of Harry, why he didn’t invite Draco himself. It’s petty, but that’s all Draco’s ever known.

There’s nothing but genuine interest in the conversation on Harry’s face, though. “Oh, yes! I was going to tell you about it earlier, but,” Harry leans in, “Ron told me not to. He said he’d wanted to be seen in your Department—you know Percy used to work there—and show that another Weasley works in the Ministry. Beats me why he’d want to do that, but don't tell him I told you,” Harry grins. “If anything, I think he just likes talking to you, but he’s too prideful to admit it.”

Draco didn’t know that Percy had worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation but he doesn’t comment on it. He’s too distracted by the rest of Harry’s words, too busy giving himself yet another lecture in his head about how he needs to trust people more. Especially people who he wants to get closer to.

So he smiles, a shy smile, maybe even a little bashful.  _ How unbecoming of me, _ he thinks, but he doesn’t care, because his doubts were just proven wrong.

Harry’s grin softens too, and Draco has to start shoving more pie in his mouth just to stop himself from blurting out something awfully emotional.

“Hey,” Harry begins again, “want to make a shared costume?”

Draco chokes on his pie.


End file.
